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Agatha’s Point of View
“Of course you can stay, Henry.”
I said it over breakfast, the way you say things that matter—between bites, without rehearsal, while the jam is still on the knife.
Concetta laughed. Luca laughed. Henry didn’t.
“Are you being serious, Agatha?”
I spread more of Concetta’s strawberry preserves on my toasted rye, sipped my coffee, and watched him lean forward across the table with his mouth slightly open, waiting.
“I never lie when I am eating Concetta’s homemade preserves, Henry.”
He stood up. He rounded the kitchen table in two strides. He lifted me clear off my chair into a bear hug that pressed the breath out of me, and I laughed into his chest while Luca applauded and Concetta squealed and gripped my arm as though she needed to hold on to something or she’d float off her chair.